


Buttercream

by SwiftEmera



Series: Olivarry Week 2015 [3]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwiftEmera/pseuds/SwiftEmera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Barry stares at the charcoaled disaster before him, he can only come to one conclusion. Baking is not his forte.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buttercream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starrxlorrd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrxlorrd/gifts).



> Written for Olivarry Week Day 5 - Domestic. (And also for Granvas, who put the idea into my head over a month ago. I'M SORRY I KEPT YOU WAITING SO LONG.)

Barry sighs, glowering at the charcoaled pastry on the counter before him with contempt.

He really should have taken Iris up on her offer to help him out with this, but _no_ – he had to go ahead and insist on doing it on his own, in some stupid attempt at being romantic and celebrating their anniversary by surprising Oliver with his baking skills - because _how hard could it be, really?_

He did everything the online recipe had told him to – measured the ingredients carefully, put them in in the right order, set the oven to the right temperature – how did this even happen?

As he hears the keys jingle in the lock, he runs his hands through his hair and lets out a frustrated groan. He waits in silence, his stomach churning with nausea, for Oliver to make his way into the kitchen to greet Barry.

“What's that smell?” Oliver asks as he nudges his way through the door, and then he stops sharply in his tracks as he takes in Barry's appearance. Which, Barry figures, must look ridiculous. His hair is sticking up at all sorts of awkward angles, his entire body _coated_ with flour, and he can't quite get the stricken look off his face fast enough before Oliver spots it.

“Did... did you bake?”

“I... tried.” Barry sighs, staring at the kitchen tiles. He can feel his face heating up, and Oliver's eyes watching him carefully. Then, nodding to the pie, “As you can see, it didn't really work.”

His boyfriend lets out a short puff of laughter, shrugging off his jacket and laying it over one of the dining chairs, before moving to wrap his arms around Barry from behind and nuzzle into his neck, placing a soft kiss against his nape in the process. “You're such a dork.”

“Shut up,” Barry grumbles, but he leans into the touch anyway. “I was trying to be spontaneous.”

Oliver squeezes him at the waist a little, before drawing back, and Barry sighs dejectedly.

It's not like it's a big deal, really – he _knows_ this – but it doesn't stop him from feeling like shit over it. He'd had it all planned out. They'd order dinner, curl up on the couch with a movie, then Barry was going to bring in the pie for them to share between them. He wanted to impress him. He wanted to impress him so _badly_.

Oliver spins him around on his feet so that they're facing one another, and his smile dips a little as he regards Barry's expression. “Aw, come on, Barr. It's not that big a deal, is it?”

“I just- I wanted it to be perfect,” He admits with a slight huff, and Oliver pulls him closer so that Barry's nose is pressed against his chest, and squeezes him in his arms. “I've never baked before. Iris offered to help, but I said no,” he mumbles against Oliver's shirt.

“You should have asked for my help,” Oliver chuckles, curling his finger under Barry's chin so that he can tilt his head up to meet his eyes.

“I was trying to surprise you,” Barry sighs, his eyes flickering over Oliver's amused expression. “It's not funny.”

“It's a little funny,” Oliver contradicts, leaning down to place a soft kiss on his forehead. “But why don't we do it together?”

Barry blinks. “Wait, you're serious? You can bake?”

They've been together for a year now – lived with Oliver for one of them - how is this his first time hearing about this? Sure, he knows the older man is a great cook. He often jokes that it's part of the reason they're together. But cooking and baking are two entirely different concepts.

“I mean, I'm by no means a professional, but sure. What, uh-” Oliver glances back up to the charcoaled mess on the counter, and his lips twitch a little, but he manages to compose himself and straighten his face. “What were you trying to make?”

“It was- cherry pie,” Barry replies with a groan, dropping his forehead to Oliver's chest again and allowing his boyfriend to stroke his back in gentle soothing motions.

Oliver hums. “Maybe not the best thing to start with.”

Squeezing Barry a little in his arms before stepping away to move to the cupboards, Oliver begins opening and slamming doors as he rifles through their ingredients. Barry watches on, his gaze trailing over the slender muscles of Oliver's back as he reaches for the high shelves, pulling out various jars, packets and what he assumes are tiny bottles of extract.

“What are you doing?” Barry asks, folding his arms over his chest as he leans on the edge of the counter across from him.

“We're making cupcakes,” Oliver replies, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. He moves to the fridge and pulls out a tub of butter and a couple of eggs. “It's been a while since I've baked, so we'll start with what we're least likely to fuck up. Can you clear the counter?”

Barry huffs, but he obliges anyway. As his failed disaster tumbles from the plate into the bin, though, he feels a strange sense of relief roll off his shoulders, because at least he won't need to look at it anymore.

He doesn't do much, if he's being honest. He merely leans against the counter, and admires Oliver as he gets to work, throwing in flour, sugar, eggs, and- well, Barry's not entirely sure what other ingredients he's adding to the mixture, because he can barely concentrate at all. The way that Oliver carries himself – barely sparing a thought about what he's adding, casually whistling to himself as he works – it's really doing things to Barry right now.

His eyes trail the lines and curves of the older man's body, and Oliver stills, as though he can feel Barry's gaze from behind him. Whirling to meet his eyes, bowl still cradled in his arm and spoon in his other hand, Oliver smirks. “You're not really learning anything here, Barry.”

Barry flushes and ducks his head, rubbing his palm over the back of his neck. “I- I was... watching?”

“Watching, huh?” Oliver replies, a teasing expression falling over his face.

“Shut up,” Barry mumbles.

Oliver huffs a laugh. “Cute.”

With a huff, Barry makes his way over to Oliver and glares. “I'm not cute. I'm handsome. There's a difference.”

“Uh huh,” Oliver says without conviction, an amused glint in his eye as he glances at the younger man. “So, did you want to learn, or just stand there and stare at my ass all day?”

“I was _not_ staring,” Barry lies, arms folding across his chest. “I was paying attention to what you were doing.”

“Uh huh,” Oliver repeats, and Barry rolls his eyes. “Well, I've pretty much made the mix. I guess you can make the icing, and I can tell you how to do it.”

Barry blinks. “Icing?”

“Funny thing about cakes,” Oliver teases. “A lot of the time, icing goes on the top of them.”

“But I- we have store bought. I- I bought it last week.”

At that, Oliver tilts his head. “Why?”

“I wasn't sure what I wanted to bake,” Barry admits with a sigh. “I just bought a whole bunch of stuff and figured we could use it at a later date.”

His boyfriend doesn't say anything, but Oliver scrunches his nose in something akin to disgust, and Barry can't help but question.

“What's that face?”

“What?”

“The face that you're making,” Barry huffs exasperatedly. “The one that looks like I just suggested torturing kittens – ah, yeah, see, there it is again!”

Oliver just snorts. “Just- store bought icing. Doesn't it taste a bit... bland?”

“It's buttercream,” Barry tells him, but Oliver still doesn't look convinced, so he resorts to rifling through the cupboards himself until he finds the small red-lidded white tub hiding behind several bags of flour (and seriously, why do they need so much flour, anyway?).

“We can _make_ buttercream,” Oliver points out. “It's really not that hard.”

The lid opens with a _pop_ , and he peels back the foil before handing it to Oliver. “Taste it. It's nice.”

Oliver just frowns down at it like it's offended him, though, and Barry bites down on his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing at his expression.

And, fine. If he's not going to try it on his own, Barry knows exactly what he needs to do.

He makes to the sink quickly to wash his hands, before returning to pry the container from Oliver gently, and he dips his finger in. It's not like they're going to use it, anyway – he knows the older man is going to insist on making his own icing. He's stubborn that way. He just wants Oliver to _try_ it. So he dips a finger in, and holds it up to Oliver's lips.

“Try it.”

Eyes dart to his finger, then back to his face, and the predatory grin that Oliver sends him in reply makes him swallow thickly. Even with the slight warning, he still lets out a whimper when Oliver does, in fact, take the offered finger into his mouth, and ensures to use his tongue to skilfully sweep all the icing from him. He keeps his lips pressed against his flesh as he comes off slowly, leaving a wet trail of tingles in his wake – all the while keeping his eyes firmly trained on Barry's.

“Not bad,” The older man tells him, giving him a knowing smirk as Barry stares at him with a slack-jawed expression.

Suddenly, he's being yanked into Oliver, who fixes him with a teasing smirk, which is... worrying. The only time that look ever crosses Oliver's face is when he's planning something – and it usually never ends well for Barry.

Or, well. That's a lie. It usually _always_ ends well for both of them.

As his boyfriend leans in, though, he feels Oliver's hot breath ghost over his neck, before he licks a thin strip across the flesh, and Barry shudders slightly, grasping onto the sleeves of Oliver's shirt for balance. He feels Oliver's lips curve into a smile against his skin.

Barry lets out a yelp as Oliver grasps onto the back of his thighs, proceeding to lift him off the ground, and Barry quickly wraps his legs around Oliver's waist to steady himself, his arms thrown around the older man's neck. Oliver lets out a low chuckle at that, and it goes straight to Barry's dick.

Oliver's strong arms hold him tight in their grasp, allowing Barry to loosen his grip, and he moves his hands to thumb over Oliver's stubble with a grin, before leaning down and bringing their lips together hungrily, to which Oliver lets out a groan immediately.

He feels Oliver's hardness against his thigh, his own pants tightening around his crotch, and Barry whimpers against Oliver's lips as he's placed on the counter, Oliver trailing his hands up Barry's thighs until he reaches his ass, which he grips onto and pulls Barry into him so that they're grinding together.

“Ollie,” Barry gasps, as the older mouths hungrily at the curve of his neck, scraping his teeth over the flesh slowly, causing Barry's skin to prickle.

“We- ngh,” Oliver grunts as Barry tightens his legs around him, increasing the pressure on their erections, “We need to be more naked. Right the fuck now.”

“Y-yes,” Barry agrees with a choked gasp. “Yes, we do.”

It doesn't take them long. Once they're both stripped of their shirts, Oliver's fingers work his zipper with practised ease, and Barry shuffles on the counter so that Oliver can slide off his pants and underwear in one swift motion, before proceeding to strip himself of his own – and when Oliver draws their bodies back together, and finally, _finally_ flesh is against flesh, Barry's breath hitches at the contact.

The surface of the counter is a little cold below his bare flesh, but the hot flush overtaking his body is slowly warming it, and quite frankly, the feeling of Oliver grinding against his dick overtakes any discomfort that he might feel from the marble.

Oliver draws back, though, and when the heat leaves him, Barry lets out a whimper – but the older man just smirks at him. “I think I know what we can do with that store bought icing, after all.”

And – okay, yeah. He's not going to lie. That's something that definitely piques his interest.

Before he knows it, Oliver's smearing the sugary buttermilk all over him – his chest, his abs, his hips, his thighs, and _god_ even the feeling of Oliver's fingers stroking against him is driving him wild with desire.

When Oliver runs his tongue over the icing on his stomach, Barry's breath hitches, and a whimper escapes his throat. Oliver's eyes roam his body like he wants to devour Barry himself, but he settles for moving over his flesh, licking and mouthing at the icing until there's nothing left, leaving Barry a spluttering, babbling mess.

Then finally – _finally_ – Oliver turns his attention to Barry's lips, and Barry can taste the sweetness on his boyfriend's tongue as he runs it over his own.

“Wait there,” Oliver mumbles against his lips, laying one last kiss on them before he moves from Barry. Barry resists the temptation to reach out for him – to pull him back into his warmth – but only because he knows exactly what Oliver's leaving for, and he's completely on board. Doesn't stop him from missing him for the few minutes it takes Oliver to rifle through their drawers and return equipped with two small packets – one foil square, and one rectangle, which Barry assumes is lube.  
  
One of his legs is thrown over Oliver's shoulder so that he's at the right angle, and a hiss escapes him as the cool liquid is spread over his hole, nails scraping into the counter below him, trying desperately to grasp onto something – anything – as Oliver slowly sinks one slicked up finger past the tight ring of muscle.  
  
“ _O-liver,_ ” Barry chokes, voice tight and strained, back arching a little as Oliver works him slowly, carefully. Soon, Oliver works up to two fingers, then three, and Barry is so lost in the dizziness that he's barely of the fact that he's uttering a string of curses and pleads and choked sobs.  
  
A stuttered gasp falls from his lips when, after rolling on the condom and lubing himself up, Oliver is sinking into him. He grips onto his boyfriend's forearm with a whimper and tightens his legs around his waist as Oliver brings their lips together, running his fingers through the strands of his hair as he kisses him sensually, waiting for Barry to adjust.  
  
Soon enough, though, he's ready, and all he has to do is nod before Oliver's rocking into him slowly, and Barry's breath hitches with every stroke. And _fuck_ , it feels so good.  
  
Oliver reaches over to grasp onto the icing again with shaky hands, and Barry makes a strangled noise when he smears it over his neckline, only to run his tongue over it once more as he continues to fuck him lazily.  
  
“ _Oliver_ ,” Barry pleads, and Oliver seems to understand exactly what he's asking for, because before he knows it, strong arms are lifting him off the counter, and Barry scrambles to fix his arms around the back of Oliver's neck and tighten the grip of his legs around his waist as Oliver proceeds to carry him through the house. He whimpers when Oliver slips out of him due to the angle, but as his back hits the mattress of their king-sized bed with a soft _thump_ and Oliver hastens to sheath himself once more, Barry lets out a loud groan.

 His head rolls back on the pillow and he squeezes his eyes shut as he feels Oliver collide with his prostate, each thrust dragging out choked sobs from Barry as his chest rises and falls in sharp pants.  
  
Oliver snaps his hips with abandon, no longer taking his time, and it's exactly what Barry wants – what he _needs_. The adrenaline pouring through him makes tingles break out all over his skin, and it's not before long that his entire body cries out in harmony, and his orgasm crashes over him in waves of ecstasy as he tenses underneath Oliver, spilling between them completely untouched. Oliver follows with a murmured “ _Barry_ ,” against the flesh of the younger's neck.  
  
They collapse together in a tangle of limbs, Oliver holding Barry tight as he hooks their legs together, and Barry lies limply against his chest, his lips tugging into a satisfied smirk.  
  
“So much for baking,” Barry mumbles tiredly.  
  
“That icing tasted better on you, anyway,” Oliver chuckles, squeezing Barry in his arms.  
  
Barry just snorts. “And they say romance is dead.”  
  
They lie in silence for a while, soaking up the calm of the moment, until Oliver bumps his nose with Barry's forehead, and Barry raises his head to meet the older man's eyes.  
  
“Happy anniversary,” Oliver tells him with a warm gaze, his smile crinkling his eyes at the side. “I enjoyed my... dessert.” He reaches over to stroke Barry's cheekbone with his thumb softly, and Barry hums happily.  
  
“Happy anniversary,” Barry whispers in reply, all bitterness about his failure at baking completely gone now.  
  
Maybe one day he'll be able to actually bake something without burning it to a crisp – though he should probably find someone other than Oliver to teach him, if he wants to actually _learn_ anything. Not that he's complaining about what their trial resulted in. If anything, this was way better.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me [here](http://smittenvigilantes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
